September 1, 2021

Seals in September, A Poem

I swim to remember, I swim to forget

The water is cold, the memories are wet

Invisible I glide over sand and loose shell

Salt air in my nostrils, seaweed perfumed smell

Above me the sky a grey chambered hue

Fall arrives fast to raise gooseflesh anew

When the days turn short and cold and dank

I’ll pull out my selkie suit, scramble down muddy bank

Through ice and mud and green water I’ll find, myself once again with a quieter mind

I’ll swim to remember, I’ll swim to forget

Invisible dreamer, salted and wet

No one shall call me, no one shall dare

As I swim among seals, held captive in care

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September returned today and children here, including my youngest son, went back to school. The early fall sun shone warm and soft upon the water, hanging in a sky of brilliant cloudless blue, as it always seems to do on the first day of school. Big yellow busses bumbled around the island as kids clustered about kicking gravel, waiting to board, their colorful backpacks stuffed to the brim with pencils and lunches and extra masks.

It all looked so normal, except for the masks, and the house was quiet for the first time in a year and a half.

The bay was quiet too, with no children in sight, as brave teachers flung windows wide open and welcomed fresh eyes and hidden smiles into well ventilated classrooms across the island.

Summer is over, and with it a tentative hope has arrived with the tide that maybe we will have a bit of normalcy again. The term “in person school” wasn’t even a thing before Covid-19. How much our world has changed.

Next week I’ll return to teaching art, but this week and today gifted me with time to swim under autumn’s sunny skies. We have been blessed with smoke-free skies, unlike last year, and we are very lucky to live in a place where most of the residents follow science and are vaccinated if able.

Still, unease floats in my mind, and every parent holds optimism in a slippery grasp, as time will tell whether Covid-19 can be kept at bay and our children stay healthy and in classrooms where they so desperately need (and deserve) to be.

Late in the afternoon I grabbed my float and edged into the water at the head of the bay at high tide. Tiny mosquitos zoomed low over the water, a cool mixture of salt and fresh water where the salmon stream spills out over the muddy bay.

Even under sunny skies, the water temperature is noticeably cooler, as night temperatures have dropped, taking the warm water away. As soft mud oozed between my toes and I stood still, letting the cold seep in, I recalled swimming in the bay during the extreme heat wave in late June. The water was as warm as tea and I remembered scooping up cooler water from below to try and cool off as I swam.

Today, the water felt just as it should feel this time of year—fresh and cool, hinting at winter and the intense chill it will bring. Another little taste of normalcy. I felt relief.

I took a quick dive under into my watery world, to force the cool against my skin, then a moment above to pull on my cap and goggles and get under way. A wall of clear green filled my view below the water, and a sparkling blanket of tiny diamonds stirred up by a gentle breeze shimmered upon the surface a few hundred yards ahead. I glanced up and low across the water right before me, smooth as glass, broken only by my strokes. Like a glass artist, my body moved clear liquid, bringing momentary shapes and ripples to life only to melt back to nothingness moments later. Absorbed. Absent. No trace remaining.

The clear water was calming, visibility being the best friend to any open water swimmer, especially in saltwater. I could rest assured that I would have time to duck or glide safely around any stinging jellyfish, and maybe be able to spot some other sea life below me—a seal would be nice. Or perhaps a crab, a school of minnows or some starfish, like the few Liz and I spotted a few days ago.

“A birthday star for you,” she had exclaimed, as we marveled at the sight of a 5-legged beauty on my forty eighth birthday.

As I carried on through the back bay, I prepared myself mentally to see a seal. I felt strong and powerful, pulling hard through the water, ready to meet a seal again.

Several weeks ago I had a very close encounter with a resident seal, and the experience thrilled and startled me. Like an unexpected gift, she appeared directly below me, gliding forward beneath me, her body a fuzzy mass of grey white.

I had been on the brink of tears, a private grief had risen up while I swam alone, in the middle of the bay. Like my quiet grief, out of nowhere, this seal also appeared. The surprise jolted me back into the present moment.

I paused and scanned the surface for her, tears suspended on my cheeks, and found her beside me a dozen feet to my left, effortlessly escorting me along. She went below, and I turned, sensed motion and found her right behind me. As I glanced a flash of eyes and white, my unbridled fear of being touched by her or bitten by her took over and I kicked wildly hoping to frighten her away. She disappeared in a flash , and my fear was replaced with guilt that I was trespassing in her world, and let myself be overcome with irrational fear scaring her unnecessarily.

She did not show herself again that day. Nor did I see her today.

I swam clear out to the landing and swam hard and fast all the way back to the muddy bank.

And I wished for the seal to appear.

And I wished for fearlessness.

And I wished for more starfish and crabs.

And I fantasized swimming all the way around the island—one mile at a time—the place I have called home for almost my entire life.

Perhaps I will swim around the island. Eventually.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes focused on the water around me, watch for more seals and tuck my hope for brighter days in a moon snail shell —for safe keeping.